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Dec 17 Intro 3: "The Last Noel"

I'm jumping ahead of my publication history a little to bestow upon you the joy that is Christmas, but in my world happy elves, and flying reindeer mean something a little different. "The Last Noel" takes a look at why Santa Claus has so many different names and origins, and the truth may be more sinister than expected.

The
Last Noel

Alex Azar

Why have you never wondered where Santa’s elves
came from? They’re introduced to us as children and we grow up already
comfortable with the notion that this jolly fat man has a race of pygmy slaves
in his isolated snow kingdom. Well I’m
here to answer all the questions you didn’t think to ask; like why an ever young
hottie like Mrs. Claus with that portly home invader?

I went through all the typical stages of
Christmas myths every other American does, other than the Jews of course. Sure I believed in Santa religiously as a
kid, waiting wide eyed in bed for my gift list to be fulfilled. That faith slowly gave way to doubt over the
years, only to be shattered in an awkward moment of revelation. We all had that moment, even though the details
the differ; some of us see our dads sneaking back away from the tree in a cheap
facsimile of the iconic red suit, or have a classmate ruin it for us by opening
their big mouths marking the beginning of what will be months of ridicule for
still believing the obvious lie.

Or is it?

After filling my son’s head with the same
absurdity she was taken from me at the age of four, before he could even
discover the truth, some disease that I still can’t pronounce correctly. But the pain of his death was too much for my
marriage, so my wife left me for a world tour of foreign cocks. Feeling like I was utterly destroyed already
I got sloppy and was fired, or “let go”, from my job as a blog journalist.

At this point you might be asking what my sob
story has to do with Santa, well on particular Christmas Eve the shit that life
threw at me drove me to the edge and I decided to jump off. Miraculously I was stopped long before
hitting the bottom. Disorientated it
took me a bit to realize where I was.
Santa had caught me in his sleigh.

“You have no idea how hard it is to time a catch
like that, let’s not try it again, okay?” The actual real life non-mythical
Santa Claus saved my life mid-air and quipped about it. Aside from his cavalier attitude his voice is
exactly like you imagined as a child.
“You’ve been a good boy Sammy…” Oh my god, I can’t believe he actually
says that, “…you don’t deserve what’s happened to you, but unfortunately I
can’t give you what’s on your list.
Darryl is dead, I can’t bring him back.”

He sees the obvious disappointment in my face,
and places a giant mitted hand on my shoulders.
Despite its size, his hand feels almost weightless. I think he smiles but it’s hard to tell
through his beard, you can barely see his mouth open when he talks. “I am sorry about your son, and while I can’t
make it up to you, how about a different gift?
Here.”

He gives me the reigns in his hands and for the
first time I notice the reindeer just floating in air before the sleigh, “Holy
shit… sorry to curse sir but this is all a lot to take in. How is all this possible?”

“It’s all just a reality, different from and yet
very much like your own. Now give the
line a good whip and tell these fellas where you want to go. Anywhere in the
world.”

Excitedly I ask with half breaths, “Even to…”

The big man cuts me off in as polite of a manner
as possible, “Yes, they can take us to the moon and beyond, but you wouldn’t
survive the trip.”

“Ah makes sense, OK…uh…on Prancer?”

“No, no those aren’t really they’re names. Just say the destination and they’ll do the
rest.”

A little more disappointed than I should have
been, I dropped my shoulders, “OK” It takes me a moment to think of where I
want to go, but of all the bucket-list locations that came to mind like Paris,
Japan, or Italy they all feel too romantic to go with Santa and that’s when it
hits me. What better place to go with
Santa by his reindeer. “Take me to the
North Pole.”

Santa laughs with a “Ho Ho Ho,” that makes the
hair on my neck stand giddy, “That’s where they all pick.”

I go from giddy to jealous faster than I would
have thought possible, “What do you mean ‘they’?”

Once again placing a weightless hand on my
shoulder he explains, “I choose you Sammy for a reason. I’m sure you know that this time of year the
rate of suicides sky rocket and while I’d love to, I can’t save everyone. But I saved you because I have a favor to
ask.”

I ask “Of me?” but to my ears they sounded more
like nonsensical grunts.

“You’re situation and your former profession
makes you the perfect person to ask.
Every few generations one person is chosen to reintroduce the legend of
Santa Claus to the world. My image has
become a shill for corporate sponsorship, but you’re going to use your
journalistic abilities to invigorate the ‘myth’.” He finishes his sentence with air quotes,
which I typically hate, but seeing Santa do it is warming, possibly because of
the mitts he’s wearing.

I’m about to ask him what exactly I’m supposed
to do when I notice how cold it’s gotten.
Seeing me try to warm my arms Santa suggests, “Look in the bag of gifts
behind you, I have something with your name on it.”

Reaching into his velour bag that’s deeper than
it looks, I find a heavy winter coat is revealed, and sure enough on a tag
hanging from the zipper is my name. I
put it on, and the chill just melts away, “Wow, this is the warmest jacket
ever, thank you sir.”

“Please call me Santa, or Chris, or Papa… the
different people I’ve gotten over the years tend to choose a name they think
will be more relatable to their countrymen.”

“Hmm, well if it were up to me…”

“It is up to you, as of now, my entire lore is
up to you. No pressure, Ho Ho Ho.” He jokes, but it is a lot of pressure.

“Ok then, as an American, I’m partial to the
classic, good ole Santa Claus… it’s…” the rest of my thought trails off as does
the air in my lungs and surrounding space.

Santa takes the reign and cracks the whip with
what looks like anger in his eyes, “Hey you shits, I told you when I’ve got
someone in here with me you can’t fly so damn high!”

The sled drops altitude and air returns to me,
“Thank you, Santa.” The display of anger still throwing me off. While it’s a natural reaction for anyone, I
imagined him, freaking Santa Claus to be above such things.

“These shitheads almost killed Josefina a few
weeks back. They think because they’re
immortal I won’t punish them.”

Choosing to focus on the only thing in those
statements that wasn’t negative, I ask. “Is Josefina Mrs. Claus?”

“Ho Ho Ho, no she’s this fine piece of Brazilian
tail that’s got that Memento thing going on.
Poor chick can’t remember she bangs the real Santa every few months, so
she can’t tell people about me. Ho Ho
Ho.” The bass of his laugh vibrates in
my lungs, but I don’t find the joy in it I did mere minutes ago. “I like you Sammy,
feels life I could be myself in front of you.”

Want to read more about that "fine piece of Brazilian tail" that Santa gets on the side? Want to know the truth behind the adorable sounding Santa's Little Helpers? (I can tell you they aren't as adorable as Hollywood would have you think)
If your curiosity is sufficiently peaked you can purchase "The Last Noel" in the anthology Yuletide Tales of Horror at my Amazon Author's Page, Barnes & Noble, or for a limited time you can pick it up for a discounted price in the AzarRising Mobile Bookstore (yes that's professional author lingo for 'the trunk of my car'). The perfect stocking stuffer can now be yours (and for my non-Christmas celebrating followers, you can remind yourselves why you've chosen a different path) so don't delay Christmas is right around the corner.

Alex is an author bred, born, and raised in New Jersey. He had aspirations beyond his humble beginnings, goals that would take him to the skyscrappers of Metropolis and the alleys of Gotham. Alex was going to be a superhero. Then one tragic day, tragedy tragically struck. He remembered he wasn't an orphan and by law would only be able to become a sidekick. For now Alex bides his time writing about the heroes he would one day become, once he can rectify that pesky parent problem. Follow his scheming, mechinations, and writings at www.azarrising.com, as well as his horror movie review series the Macabre Movie Mausoleum, and various comic-related pieces in The Think Tank.

Alex is an author bred, born, and raised in New Jersey. He had aspirations beyond his humble beginnings, goals that would take him to the skyscrappers of Metropolis and the alleys of Gotham. Alex was going to be a superhero. Then one tragic day, tragedy tragically struck. He remembered he wasn't an orphan and by law would only be able to become a sidekick. For now Alex bides his time writing about the heroes he would one day become, once he can rectify that pesky parent problem. Follow his scheming, mechinations, and writings at www.azarrising.com, as well as his horror movie review series the Macabre Movie Mausoleum, and various comic-related pieces in The Think Tank.